


Happily Ever After Isn't For Guys Like Us

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Backstory, Case Fic, Episode Tag, F/F, F/M, Future Fic, M/M, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-26 01:39:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4985011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set four years after Neal’s anklet is off, someone from Mozzie’s past shows up, and it could change everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happily Ever After Isn't For Guys Like Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Damietta](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Damietta).



“Excuse me. Pardon. Excuse me.” 

Neal watched as a man, clearly not a regular, pushed through the crowd at his favorite coffee bar. Not the one near the office, but the one a few blocks from the Museum of Natural History, close to his apartment. It was a Sunday and the Upper West Side cafe was filled with locals enjoying their morning java. They gave the pushy intruder the stink-eye and Neal couldn’t help but smile into his own cup. There were few tables – this wasn’t a place meant for customers to set up their laptops and tap into an endless spigot of Wi-Fi. Here, you were supposed to order, drink and leave.

Except that it was Sunday and the yuppies that filled the place were spread out with their copies of the Times and their iPads and their rug rats underfoot. Despite the crowd, Neal liked to stop here before heading off to Peter and El’s. Elizabeth was wonderful at many things, but coffee wasn’t one of them. Sunday was June’s cook’s day off and he never managed to make the Italian roast taste good from a French press. So he had an espresso to satisfy his caffeine fix and did a little people watching. 

Neal was surprised when the out-of-towner stopped in front of his little table. He gave him his best smile, the one reserved for marks and barking dogs. “I’m done – the table is all yours.”

The man smiled back, and Neal noted that it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nicholas Halden?” 

Neal froze. Few strangers would outright identify him by that alias. He took a closer look at the man. Mid-to-late forties, thinning brown hair, brown eyes, a little over six feet tall, dressed in a not-so-cheap suit that wasn’t out of place on a Sunday in a neighborhood with several large churches. Countess Mara tie, double Windsor. Silver tie bar and matching cufflinks. But it was the shoes that gave him away. They were polished and well kept, but they had thick soles, a little broken in.

Cop shoes. 

“Who wants to know?”

“Dennis Christiansen, FBI.” He briefly flashed a badge. There was a hint of a vaguely familiar Midwestern accent in how he pronounced the name.

 _Interesting._ Neal gestured to the empty chair and sat down again. “What can I do for you, Agent Christiansen?” 

The man sat down too. “I’m working a case out of the Detroit office.”

 _That explained the accent._ “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction.”

Christiansen gave him a slight smile. “The FBI, unlike local law enforcement, isn’t subject to regional jurisdiction. We have the right to conduct our investigations anywhere on U.S. soil.”

Neal, of course, knew that. “But still, you’re far from home.”

“It’s an important case.”

His curiosity was piqued. That the FBI was approaching him now as Nick Halden could mean any number of things. He wasn’t worried, though. The deal he struck with Hughes nearly eight years ago was documented – “Nick Halden” had immunity from prosecution for everything prior to 2009. He got a free pass and the Bureau had gotten a morally flexible money man with contacts all over the world. But Nick never did business in the Motor City, and as far as he could remember, none of Nick’s contacts or clients had relations with the Mob there. Well, none except for Mozzie. 

“You still haven’t told me what you want with me, Agent Christiansen.”

The man pulled a photo out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Neal. “I am looking for this man.”

Neal took the photo and carefully blanked his expression before looking at it. But he didn’t bother to keep the surprise off his face when he did.

“This is not a man. This is a twelve year old boy.”

Christiansen pulled out another photo. “Who has become this man.”

This time Neal didn’t let his expression show. “And why would you think I know this man – if he is a real person?”

“Okay – so it’s a computer-generated image,” Christiansen admitted. “We don’t have a current photograph, but based on the parameters for age, ethnicity, environment, that image should be a fairly accurate depiction of Mitchell Emerson at 45 years.”

Neal handed back the photos, using the movement to cover his surprise. “And just who is Mitchell Emerson and why would I know him?”

“Mitchell Emerson is the real name of the man identified as Ivan Bliminse in the Mount Sinai patient records. Your name was on his list of permitted visitors when he was admitted for a gun shot wound in the summer of 2010.”

“I don’t know anyone named Mitchell Emerson.”

“But you do know Ivan Bliminse.” That wasn’t a question. 

Neal ignored the statement and stood up to leave. 

Christiansen followed suit. “Listen – I just need to talk with Mitchell Emerson – or Ivan Bliminse, or whatever he’s calling himself these days. Nothing sinister.”

“Talk? You’ve come a long way just to talk.” Neal wasn’t giving this man anything.

“Like I said, it’s important.” He handed Neal his card. “I’m staying at the Essex House on Central Park South, Room 1455. If you change your mind, I’ll be in town until Wednesday.”

Neal took the card by its edges and pocketed it. “Have a good day, Agent Christiansen. I highly recommend the chocolate croissants with a cup of espresso.” Neal left and didn’t look back, but the reflection from the glass door showed that the agent was still standing there.

Neal decided that this was a better day to take mass transit. If Christiansen was going to follow, it would be a lot easier to lose him in the subways than on the surface. As it was, there was no sign of a tail and Neal was confident, if still a little worried when he let himself in to the Burke’s front door a little more than a half hour later.

“You’re late.” Peter didn’t bother to put down his copy of the New York Times. The growl was good natured and Neal ignored it as he bent to greet Satchmo.

But when Elizabeth chimed in that she was disappointed, Neal looked up with a bit of worry. “Late for what?”

Peter just gave him a sharp-eyed look and Neal felt the flush start somewhere around his knees. “Can I make it up to you?”

“Hmm, maybe later. What kept you?”

Neal left Satchmo panting on the floor and went over to Peter and kissed him. His lover tasted of coffee, bagels and his wife. Neal smiled, licked his lips and went to kiss Elizabeth. She too tasted of coffee and bagels. And Peter. So his lovers had sex after brushing their teeth. 

“Delicious, both of you.” Neal sat down and picked up part of the newspaper that Peter had already gone through. He knew, after so many years of Sundays, that the magazine section was off limits until the crossword puzzle was finished. That was, if he wanted to stay a free man (even if his probation and work release was long over).

He finished with the Travel section, noting the airfare deals to Italy and Spain. He wasn’t planning on running, but it always paid to have a backup plan. This Agent Christiansen didn’t seem to be a threat, but one never knew.

Which reminded Neal, he needed to take care of that business card. He took his jacket into the kitchen and helped himself to a set of salad tongs and a plastic bag.

“What are you doing with those?” Peter finally looked up from his crossword.

Neal used the tongs to extract the card, which he put into the plastic baggie. Probably a bit of excess drama, but one could never be sure. “Don’t want to get my fingerprints on this.”

“On what?”

“This.” Neal held out the bag to Peter. “The reason why I was late this morning.”

**********************

Peter had always considered himself a patient man. A reasonable one too, considering all of the trials that Neal had put him through over the years. But he was coming to the end of his patience, the end of his reasonableness. It was over four years since that damn tracker came off and Neal left for parts unknown, three and a half years since Neal showed up at their door telling him that he couldn’t live without him, without them.

And three and a half years since Neal moved back into the apartment on June’s fourth floor. Peter didn’t understand that. He wanted Neal here, with them all of the time. But the other man demurred. As much as he wanted to be here, he didn’t think that Peter’s reputation would survive his permanent residence.

That was quite possible, but he was at a point in his life where he didn’t care.

He wasn’t really annoyed that Neal was late this morning – the half-hour didn’t interfere with plans any more serious than breakfast. It was more that he wanted Neal here last night and the night before, and years of nights before that and decades of nights to come. 

Peter didn’t push, though. He didn’t want to give ultimatums or force Neal to make choices. They’d been there and done that and it didn’t work out well for anyone. So he pushed aside his impatience and found the strength to be reasonable. Peter understood that wasn’t going to change Neal’s mind and he would have to be satisfied with having his heart and his loyalty.

Peter pretended to struggle with the crossword puzzle as he watched Neal. He’d have finished it already if it wasn’t for his covert observations. Neal flirted with El, then helped himself to juice and a bagel and the Travel Section. That was always an old joke between them – as if Neal actually needed the guidance of the Times travel writers.

What held his interest more was Neal’s behavior in the kitchen. He looked like he was trying to preserve evidence with a pair of El’s salad tongs. When he dropped something into a bag and sealed it, Peter realized that that was exactly what he was doing.

When he asked Neal the obvious question, Neal handed him the bag with a business card in it. Peter didn’t expect it to be from an FBI agent.

“The reason why I was late this morning.”

Peter didn’t say anything, he knew that Neal would elaborate in his own sweet time. El came over and looked at the card, then back at Neal. She wasn’t so patient. 

“Darling, what’s the matter? Are you in trouble?”

Neal smiled and Peter was instantly relieved. He wasn’t even aware that he’d been nervous.

“No, I had an interesting encounter this morning.”

“With the person who gave you this card?”

Neal nodded.

“Go on.”

“I was just finishing my espresso at French Roast --”

El interrupted. “I don’t know why you can’t have coffee here.” 

Neal held out a hand and snagged Elizabeth, pulling her into his lap. Peter watched fondly as he gave her a long, slow kiss. “Elizabeth Burke. You are the woman of my dreams, the empress of my soul. You are talented and beautiful and there is nothing that you can’t do.”

“Except make a decent cup of espresso.” Peter chimed in. It had been a long standing joke. The year before Neal’s probation was finished he had given them a top-flight espresso machine (Peter accepted it with grace, not wanting to inquire as to where Neal got the money for it). No matter how many times El read the directions, the espresso still came out vile. Oddly enough, both Peter and Neal could get it to make the perfect tiny cup. When she’d let them.

El got up, hitting Peter’s shoulder in a mock huff. “You boys think you can do everything.” 

Neal wisely kept his tongue. So did Peter. She went upstairs, leaving them alone to talk.

“Go on, Neal. Tell me more about your strange encounter this morning.”

Neal did. “He’s looking for Mozzie.”

“Mozzie?” Peter looked at the business card again, noting the address for the Detroit field office. “Why? I was under the impression that Moz has never been back to Detroit. He said he left for New York when he was twelve.”

“Exactly. Moz hasn’t been back. Certainly not while either DeLuca Senior or his son was running the city. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t been to Detroit since Frank Junior went to Marion.”

“So, why would the FBI be looking for Moz?”

“I don’t know. All he’s got is a thirty year old picture of him and an image of a forty-five year old man that’s been generated from age progression software.”

“Was it any good?”

Neal grimaced. “Yes and no – if I hadn’t seen Moz with one of his …” Neal gestured to the top of his head.

“His wigs?”

“Yeah – his wigs, I may not have recognized him.” 

“But take away the hair?”

“The image was pretty accurate.” Neal paused. “But that’s not what’s the most disturbing. This Agent Christiansen had the name that we gave Mozzie when he was in the hospital after Larssen shot him.”

“Ivan Blimsey?” Peter fumbled at the odd collection of syllables.

“Bliminse.”

“That’s right.”

“And what’s even stranger, Christiansen addressed me as Nick Halden. Not Neal Caffrey. He had no idea who I was, but he knew where to find me.”

That troubled Peter more than the alleged agent knowing the fake name they gave Moz. “Halden? You sure he wasn’t trying to keep your cover?” Not that Neal had been using Nick Halden lately.

“No. I’m positive. He sincerely thought I was Nicholas Halden. He said he only made the connection from me to Ivan Bliminse because I put Halden down on Mozzie’s list of permitted contacts.”

“And he knew to look for you on the Upper West Side?”

Neal nodded, and looked a little concerned. “ViCAP doesn’t list Halden’s address as my own?”

“It shouldn’t. We’ll check first thing tomorrow.” 

“If Christiansen was looking for me in ViCAP, wouldn’t you have been notified of the inquiry? Halden was technically your CI, too.”

“Yeah, I definitely should have received a heads up that someone’s been looking at that file.” Worry left a sour taste in Peter’s mouth. He picked up the baggie with the business card and held it up to the light.

“What are you doing?”

Without thinking, he answered Neal. “Looking for a watermark.” He found it; the small version of the Justice Department seal was embedded in the right place. The card was authentic.

“FBI business cards have security measures?” There was a little bit of unholy glee in Neal’s question. 

“I can’t believe I just told you that.” Peter put the card down and scrubbed at his face. “You don’t need to know that. Forget I told you.”

Neal grinned at him. “Hey, I’m a solid citizen now – I’ve even got my right to vote back.”

Peter gave Neal a searching look. “This is New York; you’ve had the right to vote since you were out on probation. That doesn’t impress me one bit.”

“Peter! Come on – you know what I mean.”

“I know that if you lived here with us, I’d be a lot less worried.”

“After everything, you still don’t trust me?” There was maybe the slightest bit of hurt in Neal’s voice.

“I trust you with my life, I trust you with my wife. I trust you with everything that’s important.”

“And there’s a great big ‘but’ at the end of that so-heartwarming sentence, Peter.” 

“I would be a lot happier if you were living here.” Peter muttered, mostly to himself. He really wasn’t planning on having this discussion now. He didn’t know quite how they got into it.

“You mean you’d be a lot less horny.”

Trust Neal to find a way to break the tension.

“Yeah, that too.”

El came downstairs. “Are you men playing nice?” She gave both of them The Look.

“Always. Client appointment?” She was dressed to go out.

“Bitsy Cunningham wants me to look at some floral centerpieces for the Foundation dinner next month. I think her granddaughter did them and she’ll want to charge us a premium.” 

“Maybe you want to take Neal with you. He has such a soft spot for Bitsy.” Peter looked at Neal, one eyebrow raised. He knew just how his partner felt about the octogenarian socialite. And Neal’s reaction was right on cue.

“Oh, no. No way am I getting within arms length of that old woman! She has fingers like vise-grip pliers.” Neal held his hands up and sat all the way back in his chair, as if to protect something precious, like his ass. 

“You know, Neal…” 

Peter relented. “No, today won’t be good. We’ve got something to take care of this afternoon.”

“Okay – I’ll be home in a few hours.” El kissed him and then Neal before she left.

“You are an evil man, Peter Burke. Last time I got near Bitsy Cunningham, my ass was black and blue for a week.”

Peter just smiled, then looked at the business card again, falling back into investigator mode. “What else can you tell me about your conversation?”

Neal paused for a moment, like there was something he didn’t quite want to share.

“Neal?”

Neal licked his lips. “I think he used Mozzie’s real name.”

“You’re kidding me!” That was a secret worthy of J. Edgar Hoover’s files.

“Christiansen called him ‘Mitchell Emerson’ when he showed me the picture of a twelve year old boy.”

“You sure that the kid was Mozzie?”

“I’d stake my life on it. You remember the bear?”

“The one Jefferies called ‘Mozart’? The one that was with him when he was found on the front steps of the orphanage?”

“Yeah – it was in the background of that picture. You could see the big button eye and the brass tag.”

“I can’t imagine what the FBI would want with Mozzie now – unless they’ve connected him to the Dentist.” But Peter was skeptical. Testimony from DeLuca at his trial proved all of the crimes pinned on the Dentist of Detroit over the last thirty years to be myths. “Unless they were looking at the Dentist’s original activities.”

“Really? You think the Bureau would actively pursue a suspect in a thirty-year old wire con or a street lottery?”

Peter shook his head, dismissing the idea. “No. Not likely.”

They sat there, contemplating the puzzle. 

“I suppose I could check up on this Agent Dennis Christiansen.” There was nothing to suppose about it. “I guess I don’t have to ask _you_ to sit down with a sketch artist.” He gave Neal a sharp look.

Neal just grinned back. He went over to the bookcase, retrieved a sketchpad that he had stored there and rifled through the draws until he found a few sharp pencils. “No, Peter. You don’t.”

As Neal drew, Peter cleaned up the breakfast dishes and got his gun and holster out of the safe beneath the bookcase. “We’re going to have to go into the office first. I can’t check any of the databases remotely.” Neal nodded but didn’t look up. “I don’t suppose Christiansen told you where he was staying?”

“Of course he did. The Essex House, room 1455.”

“Hmmm.” That bit of information worried Peter. “The FBI wouldn’t be putting anyone up in a neighborhood as ritzy as that. And especially not the Essex House”

“So – what? You don’t think Christiansen is a real agent?”

“Maybe, maybe not. It could be that he’s an agent but he’s not here on official business.” Peter looked over Neal’s shoulder at a near-completed sketch. “That’s him?”

“You recognize him?”

“No – no. It’s good though. Lots of detail.”

Now it was Neal’s turn to give him The Look. “Take that with you. We’ll pay a call on Christiansen after we go to the office.”

**********************

It was Sunday and the ride into Lower Manhattan went quickly. Neal wasn’t surprised to find a few agents in the office. Just because it was the weekend, it didn’t mean that work stopped. Diana was in her office – the one that used to belong to Peter. She looked up and gave him a wide grin.

“No rest for the wicked, Agent Berrigan?” Neal smiled back. Diana had always been a favorite – and one of the few people he couldn’t charm.

“Peter bringing you in for a booking?” Diana fired back.

“You wish.” They bantered like siblings and Neal relished the warmth.

“Now, now children.” Peter intervened. “Neal had an interesting encounter this morning. We may have a rogue FBI agent on our hands.”

That got Diana’s interest. Neal quickly summarized his meeting with Christiansen this morning. 

“Peter wants to check him out before we pay him a visit.”

“Maybe I can help.”

Peter gave her a look.

“One of my classmates from Quantico is stationed in the Detroit field office. I can give her a call.”

“Diana – you ride to the rescue again!” Neal wanted to hug her.

Peter quashed his enthusiasm. “You think she’ll talk business on a Sunday?”

Diana waved Peter’s concerns off. “Alicia Carlyle didn’t get promoted to SAIC in Organized Crime before her tenth anniversary because she takes the weekends off.” Diana pulled out her phone, retrieved a number and dialed on the office speaker phone.

Neal looked at Peter, grinning. “Just like the good old days, right?” This would be the closest he’d come to admitting how much he missed the give and take of his time as a CI.

“You just have to say the word, and you can be back here full time.”

Neal shrugged. Even after four years as an independent art consultant, the offer was tempting, but he knew better. “Thank you but no. We’d kill each other inside of a week.”

“Hmmm, maybe. Maybe not.”

Diana looked up at them, signaling that she got through. “I’ve got Peter Burke in the office. Yes – THE Peter Burke. My boss. Mind if I put you on speaker, Alicia?”

Apparently Alicia didn’t mind, because Diana did just that.

Neal stepped into the background, allowing the three agents to talk.

Peter spoke first. “Agent Carlyle, thank you for taking time on your Sunday to talk with us.”

_“No problem, Diana’s a good friend. I’m always happy to help, Agent Burke.”_

“Call me Peter.” 

_“What can I help you with, Peter?”_

“Do you know an agent named Dennis Christiansen?”

 _“Denny? Yeah, pretty well. He was on my team in OC for a few years before he took a posting to the Anti-Terrorism Joint Task Force.”_ There was a brief pause. _“Why?”_

“Any reason why he’d be in New York, working a case?”

_“Absolutely not.”_

“You sure?”

_“Agent Burke – Peter, I’m positive. Denny’s out on medical leave. Three months ago, he walked into a convenience store robbery and took a gunshot wound to his chest. Missed his heart by millimeters. He hasn’t been on active duty since.”_

“So there would be no reason why he’d be in New York?”

_“Nothing official. Why are you asking?”_

Neal wondered how Peter was going to handle this particular question.

“A man identified himself as ‘FBI Agent Dennis Christiansen’ to a former CI of mine. He was asking about a third party who may or may not have been involved in a thirty year old wire fraud.”

There was silence at the other end. Finally, _“Describe him.”_

Neal pressed the mute button on the phone and handed Peter his sketch. “Christiansen is six feet, brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, looks like he lost some weight recently. Very well dressed. Not flashy but still expensive.”

Peter re-engaged the speaker and gave the other agent the details.

 _“Yeah, that sounds like Denny. I don’t know what he’s doing in New York but whatever he’s investigating is unofficial.”_ Another pause, and a very audible sigh. _“I probably shouldn’t say anything more. I don’t want to get him in trouble.”_

“But there is something else we should know?”

Neal could hear the struggle in the agent’s voice. 

_“Denny’s a good man. He’s not your typical FBI agent. You’d have thought with his background he’d have fast tracked through the Justice Department, ended up as an Appellate Court Judge before he was fifty.”_

“Oh?”

_“He comes from serious money. Old Detroit money – great-grandfather made the first fortune in coal and oil in Pennsylvania, grandfather hooked up with Henry Ford. Father was a big time lawyer for the company, then got appointed to the state supreme court. His mother’s pedigree goes back to the Mayflower._

_“Denny’s parents are still the biggest philanthropic force in the state. Only Ford has more libraries and public buildings named after him. And yet Denny takes the shit assignments. Closes the uncloseable cases. I know he works a couple of dozen hours a month with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. If your guy really is Denny – I don’t want to see him get into trouble. Like I said, he’s a good man.”_

“Alicia – we’ll handle this with care. If there’s a problem, can I refer this back to you?” 

Neal wasn’t surprised at Peter’s compassion. If Christiansen was rogue and he was looking for Moz with evil intent, the matter should go to OPR. But Peter was trusting that the other agent would deal with it properly.

_“Yes, please. Denny’s a friend, but if he’s gone bad, I won’t let him get away with it.”_

“Thank you.” Peter gestured for Neal and they stepped out of Diana’s office. She picked up the handset and was talking with her friend.

“What do you think?” 

Neal looked out over the nearly empty bullpen. “I have a few ideas.”

“Care to share them?” 

“Not yet.” The idea was a little far-fetched, he wanted to see how the meeting played out. “Let’s talk with Christiansen first.”

“Oh, we’re partners now?”

“Caffrey & Burke ride again.”

“And how many times do I have to tell you, it is Burke & Caffrey?”

Lost in thought, Neal didn’t rise to the bait.

Diana joined them at the railing. “Alicia’s promised to not contact him until she hears from me.”

“Thank, Di.”

“No problem, boss.” She looked at Neal. “And I don’t get thanks from you?”

“Sorry – of course. Thank you, Diana. Should I send the champagne and flowers to Christie?”

“As long as it’s Cristal and heirloom tulips.” Diana joked.

Neal bantered back. “Your tastes have gotten expensive since you moved into Peter’s office.”

“Don’t ever change, Caffrey. Don’t ever change.”

Peter shook his head and slung an arm over his shoulder. “No, I don’t think Peter Pan here ever will grow up.” 

Neal tried not to let his irritation show. That nickname was long past due for retirement. He was going to have to have a serious talk with Peter someday soon it. But not now. “Di, it’s good to see you. And thanks – really.” He looked at Peter. “Shall we?”

**********************

Neal was quiet during the brief elevator ride back to the garage. Peter knew that his last comment had annoyed Neal, rightfully so. His lover, his friend had grown up a long time ago, and he shouldn’t needle him like that. But there was something in _him_ that didn’t want to let things go so easily, that didn’t quite see Neal as the man and not the con. It had always been like that.

“Sorry about before.”

“About what?”

“The Peter Pan crack. I know it’s not true.”

Neal gave him an indecipherable look. 

“What?”

“Did you think I was sulking?”

Peter grimaced. “No, not sulking. Hurt.”

Neal didn’t reply.

“Are you?”

Neal gave an elegant one-shoulder shrug. “Maybe, a little. It’s really kind of old, you know.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

Neal looked down, a small smile on his lips.

“What’s so amusing?”

“I thought I was the one in this partnership with impulse control problems.”

Peter couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, well.” He pulled out of the garage. Traffic in the area was light but it would get busy as they headed uptown.

“How do you want to handle this? Good cop – bad cop?” 

“I don’t think that you qualify as either a good or a bad cop, Neal.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Actually – I don’t think we should tag team him. I suppose it’s too much to ask you to wait in the lobby while I talk with him.”

“You’re correct. It would be”

Peter sighed. “Okay, then I want to approach him directly.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Let’s catch him off guard.” He had an idea just how to do that. “Call Christiansen at the Essex, tell him you want to meet at –” Peter checked the dashboard clock “Three o’clock – an hour from now. Tell him you’ll see him in the Lobby Lounge.”

“But we’ll be there an hour before and try to corner him in his room?”

Peter grinned. They were still like hand-in-glove.

He listened as Neal called via the hotel switchboard and set up the meeting. Christiansen must have asked why he didn’t call his cellphone and Neal lied without even pausing to think. _“I threw away your card, but I changed my mind.”_

Peter pulled up in front of the posh hotel, flashed his badge at the doorman, who directed a valet to park the Taurus. 

Where Neal would have charmed his way up to the guest floors, Peter simply walked through the hotel as if he owned it, totally unconcerned about his down-market weekend attire. No one challenged them, and they boarded an elevator.

“Room 1455?”

“Yeah.”

“Neal – follow my lead. Don’t do anything stupid. And don’t glare at me. It’s been four years since we’ve done this. I just want to make certain we all go home tonight.”

They got out and found the room. Peter knocked sharply twice, hoping to sound like housekeeping or room service. He left his gun in his holster but took out his badge. Christiansen may be rogue, but he was still FBI. No reason to escalate.

Yet.

He knocked again, and there was a muffled, “Hold on, I’m coming” from inside. He stood to one side, away from the peephole and kept Neal behind him.

The door opened, latch still engaged. “Yes?”

“Dennis Christiansen?”

“Who’s asking?” The man didn’t shut the door, but he stepped back.

“Peter Burke, FBI. We need to talk.” He held out his badge, identification card and gold shield clearly visible.

There was a brief pause as the door closed. The latch rattled and was disengaged, and the door opened all of the way.

Peter was greeted by the sight of a half naked man, with a still-healing six-inch scar across his chest.

“What can I do for you, Agent Burke?”

“You can start by letting us in. I don’t think we want to have this conversation in the hallway.”

“We?”

To Peter’s chagrin, Neal gave the man a jaunty wave. “Hi there! Decided to come by a little early.”

Christiansen stepped back and let them into his suite. Peter wanted to make a comment about how do FBI agents afford such deluxe accommodations, but he remembered what Diana’s friend said. This man came from serious money.

“Well?”

“Maybe you want to finish getting dressed?” Peter wasn’t uncomfortable with the man’s scar; he just didn’t like interrogating anyone when they were half naked. Christiansen obliged and went into the bedroom. Peter kept an eye on him while Neal relaxed and enjoyed the view of Central Park.

Christiansen came out wearing a cashmere sweater that Peter figured cost almost as much as his weekly take-home pay. Having Neal in his life provided a rather unwanted education in men’s high fashion.

The other agent had also put on his own badge and a slightly more accommodating posture. “I’d ask what I can do for you, but Mr. Halden’s presence is a little confusing.”

Neal, thankfully, didn’t say anything. 

Peter decided to cut to the chase. “What are you doing in New York, Agent Christiansen?”

“As I told Mr. Halden, I’m looking for Mitchell Emerson. A man that is also known as Ivan Bliminse. It’s for a case I’m working on.”

“Dennis – may I call you Dennis?” Peter wanted to keep this agent a little off-balance.

The man gave him a small nod.

“Dennis – if you were working a case, why didn’t clear it with the New York field office? That’s basic protocol.”

The other man shrugged. “I got into town yesterday, was going to report in tomorrow. Just wanted to get a head start.”

Peter thought, _Good answer._

Christiansen continued, “But – unless you’re with the Assistant Director’s office, you wouldn’t know whether or not I’ve filed an inter-office operations notice.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t mentioned what division you’re with.”

Peter just gave him an angelic smile. “No, I haven’t.” Let the man sweat.

Neal looked as if he was about to say something and Peter shot him a look. Neal’s mouth closed with an audible snap.

The three of them sat there until Christiansen broke the silence. “Look – Mitchell Emerson is an old case. I’ve got some leave…” He gestured at his chest – the area where the scar was. “And I thought I’d see if I could wrap it up.”

“Old case?” Peter figured he’d mention Mozzie’s stint as “The Dentist” or maybe the old wire con he ran on DeLuca. He was not expecting the answer he got.

“A missing persons case.”

Peter looked over at Neal, who wasn’t surprised at all. In fact, he looked like he was just proven right.

“Can you give me some more detail?” 

“I think I’ve said enough – I’m working as a private citizen here.”

“Who flashed his badge at least once.” Peter nodded his head in Neal’s direction. “And used his position in a high level task force to access identity data without triggering any alert codes. Not to mention getting hospital information on the strength of an ongoing Homeland Security investigation.” That last one was a shot in the dark, but it worked. Christiansen flushed an unbecoming shade of dark red.

“What does it matter to you? And why is Halden with you?” It looked like a light bulb went on overhead. “Shit. Shit, shit – you’re an undercover agent, right? Damn.” Christiansen got up, ran a hand through his hair. “Look – seriously – I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble - blow anyone’s cover. I just need to find Mitchell Emerson. It’s … personal.”

Peter looked over at Neal, who nodded back at him. “No, Nick Halden isn’t an undercover agent. He is – has been – a confidential informant for me. When you checked his identity in the databases, I should have gotten an alert that you were looking at him.”

Dennis threw himself back onto the couch, he was pallid and sweating. A hand went up to push at his scar. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell me about Mitchell Emerson.”

“You know him? You’ll help me find him?” The desperation in Christiansen’s voice was telling.

Peter saw Neal’s minute nod. “I may. But I’m not making any promises until I know why you’re looking for him.”

If possible, Christiansen turned paler and Peter was beginning to get concerned. Neal on the other hand, was watching the man with grim intensity. It seemed he knew exactly what was going on.

Peter went over to the minibar and retrieved a bottle of cola. Christiansen took it gratefully. He finished it, putting the cap back on and setting the bottle carefully on the coffee table. Peter recognized the delaying tactics.

“Dennis?”

The man sighed. “Have you ever done something so wrong, so despicable that it haunts you for the rest of your life?”

**********************

“Peter hasn’t, but I have, Agent Christiansen.” Neal replied, his voice low.

Dennis turned to him, sadness aging his face. “Then you know how corrosive shame and regret can be?”

“Yes, I do. All too well.” Neal didn’t want to look at Peter. He didn’t want to remember the time when he nearly destroyed the people he loved. 

“Then you know what it’s like to live with that stain?” 

“Yes.”

“And sometimes you’ll sacrifice everything for just one word of forgiveness?”

Neal nodded, he couldn’t speak.

Peter could, though. “What happened?”

The man didn’t answer right away. He rubbed at his scar again. Finally, he took a deep breath and Neal could see how it pained him. “I hurt someone. Someone who did nothing to deserve it. I was stupid and jealous and I lashed out.”

“You did this to Mitchell Emerson?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do?” Neal asked, but he already knew the answer.

“You have to understand something. We were kids.”

Neal caught Peter’s eye - he could see comprehension dawning.

“Are you asking for expiation?”

“No - no one can give that to me. It’s just - I’ve not talked about this in over half a lifetime.” Dennis fiddled with the bottle. “I haven’t talked about it, but it’s been the driving force in my life. It’s what made me what I am.”

“And that is?” Peter asked.

“An FBI agent. It’s why I joined the Bureau.” 

“Agent Christiansen - what did you do to Mitchell Emerson?” Neal asked again and wondered if he could ever get the man to say it.

“I ruined him. He was just a strange, lonely kid. He wanted a family and I took that away from him.”

“How?” Neal didn’t have to force the story from him, but he was going to anyway. He didn’t want to make it easy for him. Mozzie deserved at least that much.

“Mitchell was a foster kid that my parents took in. They’re do-gooders, philanthropists. Always have been. And they aren’t hypocrites, they don’t just believe it giving money and keeping the world at arms length. They wanted to make someone’s life better - make someone happy. I don’t really remember the details, but I know that they really wanted to have another child, but they decided to adopt instead. They thought an older boy would be best.”

“And?”

“One day, I came home from school and there’s this strange little kid at the dining room table. He was wearing hand-me-downs and odd bits of ‘jewelry’ – really just some old washers and stuff. Garbage. But I could see that he was smart - he had a copy of Einstein’s essays and was talking to my grandfather like they both understood the stuff. My mother introduced him as my new little brother and told me that I’d have to look out for him. I hated him on sight.”

“You were jealous.” Neal knew that already.

“Yeah – but it was more than that. This kid, this stranger had everyone wrapped around his little finger. He was a weirdo, but my family loved him. Mom took him to the opera, Dad let him sit in on hearings. My grandfather took him to museums.”

“He usurped your place.” Peter remarked.

“I thought so. Those first months – I felt like a stranger in my own home. Sometimes I wondered if I ran away, would anyone miss me at all?” Dennis gave a bitter little laugh. “I should have known better, and do you know what was the worst?”

Neal shook his head. He didn’t know where this part of the story was going.

“Mitchell looked at me and smiled. He said he always wanted a brother. He offered to let me hold that stupid bear.”

“The bear?” 

“Yeah – he said that it was in the basket with him when he was abandoned. It was the only thing he had from his birth parents.”

“What did you do?”

“I told him it was stupid and it stank. Mitchell just nodded like that didn’t really matter. He asked me what I liked to read. You could see he was really trying.”

“But you thought it was an act?”

“No – no. I just didn’t want him around. Always tagging around with that stupid bear and a book. My friends hated him, they called him a little freak. Mitchell would just look at them from behind those thick glasses, you could see him plotting and planning. But he never did anything to them.”

“What happened – what did you do?”

“It was Christmas time. My parents were making such a big deal about it being Mitchell’s first Christmas with his own family. Then I found out that they were giving him the computer _I_ wanted. I had enough.”

Dennis got up and paced the suite. Neal almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“My grandfather had this watch that Henry Ford gave him. It was one of his most precious possessions. I took it and hid it in Mitchell’s room. Of course they found it. My parents didn’t say anything and my grandfather just turned his back and walked out. The poor kid.”

“But that wasn’t all you did.”

“No – no. It wasn’t. I told him…” Christiansen swallowed. “I told him that my parents were going to have him put in juvie. He wasn’t going to get to go back to the orphanage. He was going to go to jail. So I gave him all of my allowance and told him he should run away.” He scrubbed at his eyes and Neal could see the streaks from his tears. “Mitchell left. He _disappeared_.”

“What did you do?”

“I did nothing. I figured he’d camp out on the grounds and my folks would find him the next morning. And everything would be all right.”

“But it wasn’t.” 

“No - he just disappeared. No one saw him - how could a kid from the inner city just disappear in Sterling Heights in the middle of winter?”

Neal didn’t say that Moz was someone who learned how to vanish at a very early age - even before he ran away from the Christiansens.

“We looked for him, my parents called the police, they offered a reward. But nothing.”

Neal was curious about one thing. “Did you tell them what you did?”

Dennis didn’t say anything at first. “Of course I did, the first thing the next morning. I think they knew what I did even before that.”

“What happened to you?” That was Peter’s question. 

Dennis gave him a sharp look. “Nothing - nothing really. My parents loved me, they forgave me. I spent a lot of time doing charity work with them - soup kitchens, volunteering at homeless shelters, even the orphanage where Mitchell grew up. I learned a lot.”

“Most kids would have turned bitter - inward.”

“Most parents wouldn’t have forgiven their child for something so heinous. I was lucky. For the most part. But my grandfather never forgave me.”

For some reason, Neal wanted to tell this pathetic man he was sorry for that. But he didn’t.

“We were lucky in another way too.”

“Oh?”

“Jeffries - the headmaster at the orphanage - he told us that Mitchell was all right, but he wasn’t going to come back. He was safe and he didn’t want to come home. It’s been over three decades, and he’s never stopped giving them updates, but he never says where Mitchell is. No matter how much money my family has poured into the orphanage and the school, all he says is that Mitchell is all right. But my parents have never stopped looking. I never stopped.”

Christiansen looked like a man who was facing an execution squad. “So, are you going to tell me where my brother is?”

**********************

Peter wasn’t unmoved by Christiansen’s story. It had a certain Old Testament quality to it. But there was still a big unresolved question. “How did you link Mitchell Emerson to Ivan Bliminse?”

“The old fashioned way. Fingerprints.”

That surprised Peter, who had run Moz’s fingerprints when he first met him. 

“Excuse me?” He looked at Neal, who was appalled. “You had him fingerprinted when he was in the hospital?”

Peter shook his head. “No, I certainly didn’t. There are lines I won’t cross” 

“Then how did his prints get into the damn system?” Neal demanded.

“The NYPD may have taken them when he was in recovery. He didn’t have any ID on him when they found him. It’s procedure.”

“But why add him to the central database – he’s going to freak when he finds out.” 

Christiansen looked from one man to the other. “Guys – I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I’m glad they were there. I would never have found Mitchell otherwise.”

“You had Mo … Mitchell’s prints?”

“Yes. I only found out a few weeks ago that my parents had a set of latents made from a book he had been reading. They were used by the PI they hired.”

“How did you find them?” Peter was curious.

“I recuperated at the family home. I got bored and was straightening out some old paperwork. I found them.”

“You were snooping through your parents’ files.” Peter had to chuckle.

“I’m a professional snooper.” Christiansen touched his badge. “It was nothing to have the prints run. I was shocked when they came back with a one-hundred percent match on a 2010 shooting victim in New York City.”

Peter turned to Neal. “You see - it _was_ a good idea that his prints were taken and added to the system. If the NYPD hadn’t, Mo -- Mitchell would never be able to be reunited with his brother.”

“I don’t know if _Mitchell_ will want to be reunited with him.” Neal was still troubled.

“But now he has the chance, Neal.” And Peter immediately wanted to bite off his tongue.

Christiansen look up, perturbed. “Neal? I thought this was Nick Halden?”

Peter sighed. There really was no need to keep up this fiction. “Sorry - Dennis Christiansen, meet Neal Caffrey.”

Neal shot Peter a killer look but held out his hand to the other man. 

“Wait - Neal Caffrey?” Christiansen looked from him to Neal and back to him again. “If this is Neal Caffrey - you must be _the_ Peter Burke.” He scrubbed at his face. “I think I lost too many brain cells on the operating table. Of course, of course. I take it that my brother is one of your CIs?”

Peter winced at the hope in that question. How do you tell an FBI agent that his long-lost foster brother is a criminal mastermind? And more importantly, how do you tell a paranoid, anti-government criminal mastermind that his foster brother is an FBI agent?

Neal stepped in. “No, he’s not. He’s my oldest friend.”

“Did you know who I was when I approached you this morning?”

“No - I didn’t have a clue. That’s why I went to Peter. I was worried that you were digging around some ancient history.”

“Ancient history?”

Peter interrupted. “That’s a story for another time. It’s not really relevant now.”

“Ah.” Christiansen gave them both a puzzled look. “I had heard that the famous Neal Caffrey had cut his ties with the Bureau. Was the rumor mill wrong?”

Peter so did not want to have to explain everything. Not right now. “Neal and I have kept in contact. We’ve become … friends.”

“Things must be much different here in the Big Apple. Can’t think of a single CI I’ve had that I would have wanted to become friends with.”

Peter didn’t look at Neal; he probably would have given too much away. Neal once again stepped in to rescue him.

“Peter’s always been more than just my handler. Since the beginning, he’s been there for me. The voice of my conscience, so to speak. Someone I could rely on. Someone I still do.”

Christiansen grunted, thankfully not getting the subtext. “So, will you take me to Mitchell? Please?”

Peter would have agreed, but it wasn’t really his decision. He wasn’t even sure it should be Neal’s decision. He pulled Neal aside, casting Christiansen an apologetic glance.

“What do you think?” He whispered.

“I don’t know, Peter. Moz is very sensitive about his past. I mean – I’ve never known his real name. Not until today.”

“But this guy’s legit, right?”

Neal looked over his shoulder at the man. “Yeah – I think.”

“You knew who Christiansen was when we were in the office, right.” Peter was certain of that.

Neal nodded. “When Alicia Carlyle described his background. But it seemed so far fetched.”

“I remember when Moz told us about his foster family. He sounded so ... regretful.”

“You want to reunite them, right?”

“I think we have to give them a chance, don’t you?” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “How are we going achieve this without any blood loss?”

“I have an idea. Follow my lead.”

Peter watched as Neal turned back to Christiansen, all smiles and good cheer. “Dennis, how would you like to have dinner with Agent Burke and his wife tonight?”

**********************

Neal could tell that Peter wasn’t particularly happy about being thrust into the middle of what could be a messy domestic moment.

“How else did you think we could do this? Anyplace in the open, Moz would just likely run. If Elizabeth’s there, you know he’s going to be on his best behavior.”

“You know, I am not certain I like how much Moz is fixated on my wife.”

Neal didn’t respond. There were moments when it seemed as if their own friendship was over for good, but Moz hadn’t blinked when it came to sacrificing the Nazi treasure for Elizabeth Burke’s life. His affection for El cost him the score of a lifetime. 

“You know, you’re the one who’s going to tell Elizabeth that her relaxing Sunday night dinner is cancelled, and she’s going to have guests.”

Neal didn’t pay attention to Peter. He was calling a favorite restaurant to arrange for a take out tonight. He’d have no problem with Elizabeth once he gave her the full story.

Moz, on the other hand, was going to be naturally suspicious of a last minute dinner invitation. 

“Hey Moz, what’s doing?”

_“Nothing except that it’s Sunday. Why?”_

“You don’t have to be so suspicious, Moz.”

_“You usually don’t call me out of the blue on Sunday. That’s your day with the Suits. When you do things.”_

Neal could hear the air quotes around those last two words. “And sometimes, doing things includes calling up my oldest friend and inviting him for dinner. El mentioned that she hadn’t seen you in a while and Peter suggested that I invite you over.”

_“Now I know you’re lying. The Suit wouldn’t have requested my company at a meal in this or any other millennium.”_

Neal rolled his eyes – that wasn’t quite true but he didn’t want to argue. “Okay Moz. It was my idea. I thought it would be nice for all of us to get together. I’ve order dinner from _Cortez_.” Moz didn’t immediately reply, so he added an inducement. “Including their paella.” An inducement he knew Moz couldn’t resist.

And he was right. 

_“I’ll bring the wine.”_

“Can’t wait. See you at 7:30?”

_“’Til then.”_

Neal disconnected. “You see – easy as pie.”

“You still haven’t told Elizabeth.”

“You really think El’s going to have objections when it means reuniting Moz and his long-lost foster family?”

Peter’s lips twitched. “No – of course not.”

Neal’s instincts about Elizabeth were spot on. She was practically in tears when Neal finished the tale.

“So this agent – the one who approached you this morning – he’s been looked for Moz for more than thirty years? How terribly sad.”

Neal still didn’t have much sympathy for him. “He was responsible for Moz running away in the first place.”

“But still – to be looking for so long. To want to make things right.” She gave him a look. “I’d think you’d understand that.”

Neal’s lips twitched. “I do, but maybe I’ve spent too much time around Peter to be such a soft touch anymore.”

“What’s that?” Peter was coming down the stairs and to Neal’s pleasure, he changed into something a little more formal for dinner. Not that Neal didn’t like Peter in jeans and a tee-shirt that showed off his beautiful body. He had put on a pewter cashmere sweater that Neal had given him last year, and paired it with a nice pair of black dress pants. Inappropriately for the moment, Neal felt his mouth water. 

El sensed his distraction, gently elbowed him and whispered, “Not now, later. When everyone’s gone home. We can have our way with him then.”

Their smiles at Peter must have telegraphed their intent. Peter smiled back and Neal swallowed hard. That look had been killing him for the better part of a decade.

Despite his best intentions, the air in the living room became thick with desire and he was about to throw caution and common sense to the wind when the doorbell rang. “Saved by the buzzer.”

It was Moz, bizarrely resplendent in seersucker and a plaid bow tie. He looked like something out of a Tennessee Williams play and Neal tried not to wince. “Looking good, Moz.”

“I’d say the same, _mon frère_ except that you look the same as always.” He handed Neal two bottles of wine, a parellada and an albarino to go with the paella, and went to give Elizabeth the massive bouquet of pink and yellow tulips, fluffy-edged exotics with deep ruby throats.

Neal handed off one of the bottles to Peter and watch El and Moz chat over the flowers. “She’s good to him.”

Peter sighed, and Neal knew the memories were weighing heavily. “They’re good for each other.”

Neal opened the albarino and they joined them. Moz was telling El some long and convoluted story that had her chuckling. 

“Care to share?”

“Mozzie was just telling me about a caper he ... heard of – something to do with ... what? Alpacas?”

“Allegedly heard of, and yes – alpacas.”

“Don’t they spit?” Peter asked.

“Not as much as you’d think, Suit.”

Neal took control of the kitchen, making sure the tapas weren’t getting overheated, doing a little prep work on the main dish, the seafood paella he had promised. He was making a salad when Moz come up behind him.

“So, who are you setting me up with?”

The knife slipped, pricking his finger. Neal stuck it into his mouth and Moz reached for a Band-Aid. He didn’t want to know why Moz knew where El kept the first aid supplies.

Moz bandaged him up. “Thanks.” 

“So? Who’s the lucky lady?” 

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Moz.”

“The table’s set for five. You, me, Suit and Mrs. Suit are four. Unless you’ve taken to having the dog eat at – not under – the table?”

“Ah. Right. The extra place setting. Umm.” Neal didn’t know what to say. He glanced at the kitchen clock. It was a few minutes shy of eight – the time he told Dennis to arrive. It was too much to hope that a ringing doorbell would save him from this awkward moment.

“Neal? What’s going on?”

Neal pulled the tapas out of the oven and looked helplessly at the beautiful paella. No one was going to enjoy the meal.

“Neal?” He knew that tone – it was the prelude to disaster.

But the doorbell did ring, Peter did go to answer it. And all he said was, “We’re having a guest.”

**********************

Moz didn’t like getting set up. Not on blind dates, not on criminal stings. Not for any reason, and yet he just walked into something that stank worse than the far end of Staten Island in high summer.

It wasn’t like this was the first time Neal set him up - and he did know that whatever was going on, it was probably for his own good. Or so the kid thought.

Not so much a kid anymore. Neal was pushing forty, streaks of gray already decorating that magnificent head of hair. If he were a different man, one inclined to bitterness and envy, he’d hate Neal – and for more than just the hair. He’d hate him for his physical gifts, his skills, his intelligence. The way he could get anything he wanted and make the dream come true.

Except that he really knew better. Until recently, Neal’s gifts were more curses and Neal had rarely gotten what he wanted and very little of what he deserved.

There had been a brief moment in time when Neal chose a life with all of the Suits in New York over the delights of living on their own private island, answerable to no one, when he thought he never wanted to see Neal again. 

They could have had it all. But as much of a loner as he was, he didn’t want to leave New York without Neal, he didn’t want to be alone forever. So he stayed – one extra day. And that day changed everything.

If he hadn’t, Elizabeth would have been killed and Peter would have probably died too. And Neal? He didn’t want to think of what would have happened to Neal if he hadn’t turned the treasure over to the Suit and gotten Keller a life sentence in a coffin-sized room in Florence, Colorado.

But still, they weren’t easy with each other for a long time. He could have deluded himself that it was all Neal’s fault, but the aftermath of panic has a way of stripping all your self-delusions away. That dream of a life of moneyed solitude was never Neal’s, and never would be. For whatever reason, Neal had gone along with his original plan, but quickly changed his mind. And he let himself be pushed and pulled until he was given an ultimatum.

Moz should have known better - Neal never did well with those. The Suit, who was everything that Moz wasn’t, and everything Neal needed, knew that. Almost seven years later, that still had the power to gall him. But still - he liked Peter, he loved Elizabeth. He’d never admit to it, but they were his family now.

Which was why he was here on a Sunday night for no real reason. He looked at the table, gleaming with the Burkes’ best china and family silver, the extra setting as obvious as a lump of coal in a basket of rice. The Suit and Elizabeth were being, well, _The Suit and Elizabeth_ , but Neal was squirrelly, his eyes going from the door to him and back again. He was probably the author of this little charade. 

That was confirmed when Neal sliced his finger open to avoid answering his question. But when the doorbell rang, Neal’s agitation increased. He looked over at Elizabeth, she was biting her lip and giving him such a look, he didn’t know what to make of it.

If he was hoping for a tall, strawberry blonde, or a brunette with Amazonian assets, he was doomed to disappointment. Peter opened the door to admit a tall, middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar. The man handed The Suit a bottle, but he couldn’t make out the vintage.

The man kept staring at him - there was a laser-like intensity in those brown eyes that made Moz want to head for the back door, the fence and the narrow carriage path that would lead to freedom. But he didn’t have a chance. Peter was bringing him over and the sense that he knew this person grew stronger with every heartbeat.

The stranger-not-a-stranger didn’t wait for an introduction. He said “Hello Mitchell” and all the pieces fell into place.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Dennis the Menace.” He shot a look at Neal. “You did this?” He looked at Peter. “You?”

“Moz, please.” Neal had that placating tone, the one that matched the sad puppy eyes he made.

“No, Neal. No ‘Please Moz’ - this is your final betrayal.” He cast an angry look at everyone in the room, everyone except the man he’d hated for more than thirty years. 

“Mitchell, please. Don’t go. Please.”

The bastard sounded so pathetic.

“Sorry, creep. I have better things to do with my Sunday nights.”

He might have made it out the front door except for Elizabeth. She blocked his way, arms akimbo. “You’re not leaving until you hear what your brother has to say.”

He ducked his head onto his shoulders and briefly thought about muscling his way past her. But all he could manage was, “He’s not my brother.”

“Your foster brother, then. You’re going to sit down and listen to what he has to say. Then you can leave.”

He could have turned his back on Neal. And certainly on Peter. But not on Elizabeth, never Elizabeth.

Dennis had a sick sort of pleading on his face. “Please, Mitchell. Just hear me out, okay?”

El pulled him down onto the couch and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, giving him a comforting little rub. He looked up; Neal and Peter were standing on either side of his erstwhile foster brother, ready to do what? Protect him? Beat the crap out of him?

He nodded and Dennis sat down, a picture of abject despair.

“Okay - you’ve got your audience. What do you want to tell me?”

Dennis looked at his hands, finding the calloused skin and uneven nails vastly interesting, before looking him in the eye. “Mitchell, I am sorry. I was sorry right after I did it, I’ve been sorry every moment of every day of my life since. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I’ve lived every day hoping to have the chance to say it.”

Moz let the silence extend until it was as painful as a bullet wound. “Why did you do it?” He knew why - hadn’t he told Peter and Neal all those years ago that Dennis was jealous? But maybe he needed to hear it from Dennis’ own lips.

“I was jealous - it was stupid. But it was like you were taking my place. I felt like I was disappearing.”

“How could you feel that way? They were your parents - they loved you.”

“I was thirteen years old. I was stupid. Of course they were my parents, but sometimes they never seemed to see _me_.” The last word rose on a crescendo of pain, of thirty-plus years of hurt and anger. “I was wrong - of course I was wrong. They always loved me, they always saw me. I wasn’t any less important because you were there. I was just too stupid to see it.”

In that moment, all the anger that he’d been carrying evaporated like mist under the hot morning sun. It wasn’t that it didn’t matter, but that he understood. Maybe he always did. He certainly never wasted time thinking about what his life could have been like if he stayed.

He took off his glasses and wiped them, a nervous gesture he had never been able to overcome. “I don’t think you were stupid. You were a kid. I was the shiny new thing. Who knows, maybe I would have done the same thing if I were in your place.”

The look in Dennis’ eyes was heartbreaking. “I don’t deserve this.”

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the man’s gratitude. “The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.”

Dennis gave him a puzzled look.

“Mahatma Gandhi. Or if you prefer, ‘Always forgive your enemies, nothing annoys them so much’.”

A ghost of a smile etched across Dennis’ face. “That one I think I know. Oscar Wilde, right?”

He felt an answering smile curve his lips. “Yeah.” And he was reminded of another quote, that it was easier to forgive an enemy rather than a friend. And he had forgiven and been forgiven by those he claimed as his friends way too many times not to forgive a hurt child’s bad mistake. He stood up and held out his hand.

Dennis reached out and took it. Moz pulled the man up and into his arms. He didn’t think about things like germs and contagions as he held the other man close. He didn’t think about anything except the strange joy of giving comfort and the hot wetness rolling down his face. There was an answering wetness against his neck - the other man’s tears. _No, not the other man - his brother, Dennis._

Finally, they both pulled back. He pulled off his glasses to wipe his eyes. When he put them back on, he saw that everyone in the room was affected. El’s beautiful blue eyes were drenched, Neal was scrubbing his face with a handkerchief and even The Suit was rapidly blinking.

It took a minute for Dennis to get control of himself. “Mitchell, thank you.” There was a sad smile under the words.

“Moz - not Mitchell.”

“Moz?”

“That’s my name - feel free to use it.”

The smile got just a little brighter. “Short for Mozart? Like the bear?”

Moz was rocked back on his heels, he never expected Dennis to remember that. 

“That bear - it was the only thing you took.”

“It was the only thing that was mine to take.”

“Not true - everything was yours. Everything they gave you was yours.”

Moz shrugged. It was ancient history now. 

Dennis reached into his coat and pulled out a small, flat box. He held it out to him. “This is yours, too.”

He took it. The box was old, the leather once stamped in gold. Moz knew exactly what it was. “This isn’t mine.” He held the box out to Dennis.

“Yes, it is. My grandfather left it to you. He wanted you to have it.”

“No. this is your family’s legacy. You don’t need to do this.”

“Moz - you don’t understand. When I say he left it to you, I don’t mean some vague promise. He left it to you in his will.”

“What?”

“He left almost everything to you. This - his library, the Lake Huron island and cottage, and almost all of his Ford holdings.”

“I don’t-- I don’t understand.”

“The old man loved you - he never quite got over what he did. He made me swear to find you and give the watch to you. To make things right.” 

When Moz let himself think of the night when everything had gone so wrong, he always tried to block out the look of disgust on the old man’s face. Planting the Ford watch in his room had been a stroke of genius by Dennis - Moz may not have believed that Robert and Eleanor Christiansen would have sent him to juvie, but Stephen Edward Christiansen would have without blinking. The old man had a very strong sense of duty and justice. He would never have tolerated a thief going unpunished - not even a twelve year old.

Moz put the box in his pocket, more to end the awkwardness of the moment.

“I’ll have the family lawyers get in touch with you. Everything was put into trust until we found you.” Dennis went to put his coat on and looked at Peter. “Can they reach out to you, Agent Burke? I can understand that Mitchell – Moz - wouldn’t want to give me his contact details.”

Peter tried to communicate something with an infinitesimal shake of his head. Moz hoped he got it right. “Umm - Dennis, why don’t you stay for dinner?”

Dennis stared at him. “Really? You want me to stay?”

El, bless her, took charge. “Of course he does, we all do. Don’t we?” She gave everyone else in the room a steely-eyed glare. Peter and Neal agreed with unsurprising alacrity.

“Do you prefer red or white, Dennis?” Moz decided to play host.

“Oh - no alcohol. Not yet. Still on antibiotics and the occasional painkiller.”

That got Moz’s attention. “Why?”

“I was shot in the chest three months ago. Missed my heart by two millimeters.” Dennis rubbed the left side of his chest, a gesture that was all too familiar to him.

“You’re kidding. Right?”

“No, I’m not. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t know why I’m not dead.”

“I was, too.”

“What, in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“No - shot. In the chest. Missed the heart by two millimeters. Small caliber with a silencer. It was point blank, but the silencer slowed the bullet’s velocity.”

They stared at each other. “This is really creepy, you know.”

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

“Trust you to quote Einstein.”

Neal came by with a plate of tapas. “I hope you aren’t going to start comparing scars.” 

Moz ignored him and reached for a spinach puff. “Dairy free?”

Neal grimaced. “I asked them to make it without cheese, but I don’t want to swear on that.” 

“I’m going to live on the edge tonight.” He took one and popped it into his mouth. It was good and he thought he could taste the salty bitterness of a good Spanish manchego. And there was probably butter in the pastry. _Oh, well._

Elizabeth joined them and handed Dennis a glass of club soda. “Everything okay?”

Moz felt the beginnings of a blush. El had a way of making him a little crazy. He’d learned to live with that.

“Lovely woman.” Dennis commented, following her retreating figure with his eyes. “Can I ask how you know them?” 

“Neal - through him.”

“Ah, that’s right. He said that. Said you were his oldest friend.”

Moz ducked his head. “Yeah - Neal and I go way back.” 

“You know that Burke and Caffrey are a legend, right?”

“Legend? How would you know about them?” Did everyone know that Neal was shacking up with The Suit? 

“Even in the Detroit office, we’ve heard about Big Bad Peter Burke and his brilliant CI, Neal Caffrey.”

Moz wondered if the little bit of cheese in that tapas was playing havoc with his brain. “The office?”

“Yeah - the FBI office in Detroit.”

“Wait - wait. You’re an FBI agent. You’re a Suit?” His voice rose on the last word and the Burkes’ ancient Lab whimpered in distress. “My brother is a Suit?”

Peter came over and in complete disrespect for his personal space, draped a long arm around him. “It’s okay, Moz. After so many years of putting up with us, I think you’ve developed an immunity.” 

He shrugged but Peter wasn’t letting him go.

“Come on, let’s eat. You can worry about everything later.”

Dinner was exceedingly pleasant. Neal and his Suits kept the conversation flowing, trailing out anecdotes and war stories, and he contributed where appropriate. Of course, they didn’t talk about Kate or the music box or the Nazi treasure or El’s kidnapping. Neal naturally shone - this was his element, and he made sure that every story he told highlighted his friend’s brilliance.

“But the best one was the scavenger hunt he took Peter on.”

Moz looked into his wine glass and shrugged. “That was one of my better moments, if I must say.”

Dennis looked from him to Peter to Neal. “This one I have to hear.”

Neal emptied the last of the Albarino into his glass. “Well, it all started with a corrupt politician, one of Peter’s best agents going undercover as a high class call girl and ten thousand dollars… ”

By the time the story was over, with Peter telling everyone how he’d been made to give up his shoe lace, twenty bucks and not a small part of his dignity, even he was laughing so hard that the old scar ached. 

Dennis was rubbing his chest with one hand and wiping tears of laughter off his face with the other. “Moz - anyone tell you you’re just a little crazy?”

He leaned back, satisfied. “All of the time. I don’t let it bother me.” That was the truth. He knew he was different. That he had “personality” and it long ceased to affect him. “What about you - what about your life?”

Dennis’ lips twisted. “Up until recently, I guess you could say I’ve been married to my work.”

“But being shot - almost dying - has a way of making you take stock, right?”

Dennis nodded. “It was more than that - I was lying on that dirty floor thinking that I couldn’t die before … I found you. Before I made things right.”

Moz blinked, feeling tears start again. 

“Can I ask you something, Moz?”

He nodded, desperate to change the subject.

“How did you disappear? We never found a sign of you - it was like you just vanished.”

It went against the grain to give away trade secrets, but maybe Dennis deserved to know. “I hitched onto the back of a garbage truck at the end of its run. I held on until just before the dump. Got onto an empty school bus heading into Detroit, blended in with the kids. As simple as that.”

“As simple as that.” Dennis gave him a searching look. “You were … all right? No one hurt you?” The question was fraught with meaning. 

“No - no one hurt me. I had contacts and I knew how to protect myself.”

“Are you sure? I know it can be hard to talk about what happened.” The man’s fist clenched on the table top and Moz wondered what had happened to _him_.

He reached across and laid his hand on top of his brother’s. “I was fine. That’s the absolute truth.” He squeezed gently and pulled his hand away. “But are you?”

“Yeah - I just spend a lot of time working on child exploitation cases.” Dennis swallowed the last of his club soda. “Times like this, I could use a double, neat.”

“Everyone okay?” El came out with tea, Peter with the coffee and Neal following with dessert, a beautiful fruit torte and a bowl of whipped cream. “Courtesy of the Greatest Cake.”

“The Great Escape?” Dennis gave them all a puzzled look.

“No - the Great-est Cake.” Moz and Neal chimed in simultaneously.

That launched another round of stories, and by the time the coffee, the tea and the torte were sweet memories, it was after one am. This time, when Dennis got up to make his farewells, no one stopped him. 

But as he made his own farewells to the Suits - all three of them - Moz found he didn’t quite want the evening to end. 

He turned to his foster brother. “Look, it’s going to take forever to get a cab or a car service. Let me drive you back to your hotel.”

“Moz, you drove?” El was shocked.

“Yeah - sometimes that happens. I figured this was a blind date - if it was successful, I’d want to take the lady home in style. If it wasn’t, well …”

“You needed a getaway vehicle.” Dennis finished for him.

The two men grinned in perfect understanding.

“Look, I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

“Where are you staying?” 

“The Essex, on Central Park South.”

“Hmmm, nice. I like the nuts they serve in the bar.” Moz picked up his jacket. “Well, what are you waiting for?” 

Dennis walked out, and before Moz closed the door behind him, he looked up at the array of faces, the beautiful, hopeful and very dear faces. He turned to look at Dennis, standing on the sidewalk, haloed by a streetlamp.

He had never regretted, not for a minute, letting the treasure go to save Elizabeth. But he had always missed it. He missed his dream - the private island away from the pain of life’s slings and arrows, the cares and troubles that living in the world always brings. And yet now he realized something. Had he left when he could, he never would have had this. Not his “family.” Not this reconciliation. That dream just didn’t matter anymore.

John Donne was right. No man is an island.

And just maybe he himself was wrong. Happily ever after could be for guys like him.

__

FIN


End file.
